Yao's Guardian Angel
by Yanagi of the Wind
Summary: Peter Kirkland-Oxenstierna drank a bottle of vodka and ate a bottle of pills. It's a thing he deeply regrets, but there's no going back, and if he can stop someone else from doing the same thing to themselves, he will- or at least, he'll try. AU. Rewrite of a previous story.


**A/N: A rewrite of a story I haven't updated for months and months. I got around to plotting it all out, and I'm in the process of writing the rest of the chapters. This is much higher quality work than the other one was.  
If you wanna read the three chapters I had up of the other version of this story, it was "_China's Guardian Angel from Across the Sea_" in which even the title was messed up. It should have been "_China's Guardian Angel from Across the Various Land Masses"_ but I never caught that until I realized a continent is what separates China and Sealand, not an ocean. Okay, rambling over, enjoy the chapter.**

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If a tall metal flask of the strongest vodka available at the time were combined with an entire bottle of shady, low-quality anxiety pills- the kind that're probably dangerous enough on their own- would it be enough to kill a boy? The boy thought so. He _hoped _so, because if his plan failed on the first attempt, he would surely be in more trouble than his bare ass would be able to take. Just talking too dirty around his "absolutely not my girlfriend" would earn him a sharp slap on the rear, and he wasn't ready to face the consequences that would come to him if his parents found him waking up from a suicide attempt. But what did they know, really?

As a towheaded thirteen-year-old with thick eyebrows just like his uncaring brother's and blue eyes a few shades too light to belong to either of his "parents," Peter Kirkland-Oxenstierna wondered often then if his step-parents, with their perfect little house and their fluffy little dog, ever regretted adopting a boy who was so painfully and so obviously not theirs. In fact, once Peter entered secondary school and discovered the meaning of the word "gay," he couldn't _not _wonder if they regretted moving to the United Kingdom, adopting a little English boy, and giving him the last name of his new father. People stared sometimes. The kids from class weren't allowed over again after the rumors (were they really rumors if they were true?) spread that Peter had two dads. Did his fathers ever hear the whispers at work like he did at school? Were they avoided on Valentine's day because no one was quite comfortable with them, like he was?

Of course they regretted it- they _must_. They loved him, sure- but they would give him back if it meant they could be normal, wouldn't they?

Peter finally managed to break open the top of the flask. _That associate of papa's must have ridiculously strong hands, _he thought, looking at the reddening mark the lid left on his hand. He took a whiff of the alcohol and grimaced. _And a strong stomach, too_.

The boy turned from the (stolen) vodka Mr. Braginski had left in his foolishly unlocked suitcase to the (also stolen) pill bottle that rattled quietly when he picked it up. It was anxiety medication that had, according to the equally towheaded Raivis Galante, come from a back alley drug dealer, where his older cousin could buy medication without the pay being traced. Peter never learned who would want to trace Toris' buys, but it didn't matter to him as long as the medication was dangerous. The health teachers had told him to never, ever drink alcohol with medication. If he drank strong vodka with a bottle full of pills, he would probably die.

That was what he wanted, wasn't it?

All at once, Peter dumped the bitter white pills in his mouth and poured the drink in with them. Sheer determination was the only thing that kept a vomit stain from gracing the blue bedroom carpet, and he swallowed the mixture, covering his mouth tightly with one hand afterwards. There was still plenty of the vodka left, so he downed that after he recovered, too, just to be sure it would work, and crawled up into his plush bed.

A bird pecked once at his window, and he almost thought he had been caught. Dizzy from the lack of food he'd eaten, the nervousness he felt, and maybe a bit from the vodka, he turned to the window. On the edge of his forget-me-not flower box (some rather girly flowers his friend Lily had planted for him), a typical-looking but very familiar seagull was perched. It pecked again.

Peter smiled to himself and laid back down. His hand wandered to the brown-and-white stuffed rabbit he'd gotten for some birthday he couldn't remember. At least his pet gull was there for him. That bird never seemed to judge him, two daddies or not.

His vision was pretty foggy now, and it almost struck him as funny. Peter giggled and would have hugged his toy rabbit, worn as it was, but he couldn't move his arm anymore. In fact, his whole body was cold- no, not cold. It didn't feel like anything, and it was rather comfortable. He thought he might have heard a bark coming from Hanatamago somewhere further down in the house. Maybe she would be there for him, too...

But the darkness was so comfortable that it couldn't wait for her stubby legs and small paws to carry her to his room, and his door was locked. Dogs couldn't unlock doors, no matter how quickly their trimmed nails scraped against the hardwood hallway floors.

Dogs couldn't even drink vodka.

Neither could seagulls...

But towheaded thirteen-year-olds with boxes of... Forget-me-nots... And eyes too many shades too light... and parents that were both men... and stuffed rabbits...

they could

_Mama, Papa, don't be too sad_

**-O-**

The first thing that Peter registered when he opened his eyes was his mama, Tino, on his knees, face resting in his arms. His mama was crouched over Peter's bed, and his shoulders shuddered ever few seconds. Behind him was his papa, Berwald, and... He was on his knees, too, but his arms weren't being used as a pillow; his hands, instead, were being used to comfort Tino. Berwald had his glasses taken off and on the bed beside the two, where they were guarded by their little puppy Hanatamago. Peter wasn't sure why his mama and papa were crying. He had no idea why the Russian associate of his papa's was leaning against the wall next to the door with a face mixed with shock and blankness.

The second thing Peter registered was the tall, almost regal man standing next to him, saying, "Do you understand what you're seeing here, Peter?" as he stroked his gray beard, long white sleeve dangling from his wrist.

"N... No, sir," he answered the man, shaking his head once. "I don't know what's even going on, but I'd sure like to know."

"Do you remember what you did a little while ago?" The man asked, and as Peter's senses slowly came back, he realized where they were.

"I almost can, sir. Does it have to do with why we're floating?" He didn't remember standing up, but when he looked down, it was like he was standing on a clear glass floor, or as if his bedroom ceiling was completely invisible. The man was quiet, and Peter thought he must be giving him time to think, so he did. It took a few minutes, and by that time, a man in the same uniform he knew from a program at school- one where ambulance workers came in and talked about their job- came into his bedroom and shook his head. He might have been saying something, but whatever it was, Peter didn't pay any attention to it, because the memory of what he'd done had come back to him.

Vodka. Pills. His seagull and his dog. A rabbit that he'd been told was once a toy his brother Alfred had. Forget-me-nots.

"I didn't do it! Why am I dreaming?!" He shouted, his voice strange to his ears. "I'm not dead!"

The man shook his head, looking down at the small boy. "You chose to die. It is done." Peter could not see the man's face but he could feel a certain lack of sympathy and a strict no-goings-back, and it nearly made him cry.

"Please, let me live again..." He slumped onto his knees, the barrier keeping the boy above the room, away from his own soft bed. Peter didn't have to strength to push away the man's hand as it rubbed his back, only able to stare through blurry vision at his fathers, they themselves in tears. He'd done this. They didn't regret him. "Mama, papa, please don't cry," he said, pressing his hand against the transparent ground.

"They can neither see nor hear you; we are in a different place, looking through a one-way window."

"I've never seen papa cry. Why can't I go back?" He turned to look up at the man who was now standing completely straight.

"You made an absolute choice, Peter Kirkland. You regret it now, but you chose it on your own, and you went through with it. There are other things for you now," spoke the man, and he said it with an air of finality. Even as a child, Peter could tell that, and his lip trembled again.

Slowly, as if his own legs might break, Peter stood up and asked, "What other things wait for me? Am I going to Hell for k-k-_killing_ myself?"

"No, Peter," The man shook his head slowly. "Hell does not exist outside the pages of those books."

"Then what am I supposed to do?!" Peter snapped, new tears rolling down his already dampened skin. "Go play a harp and sit on a cloud?!"

Chuckling, the man reached out and touched the boy's shoulder. Immediately, they were in a completely different place, now on the solid ground with birds chirping and gust blowing and yards away from a long wooden house. There was no mama or papa or Hanatamago in sight.

"The person who lives here needs a friend," The tall man said. "Can you do that?"

"Why can't he just go out and make a friend?" Peter asked, pouting, though the shock of the sudden scenery change had stopped his tears. He watched as a girl in front of the house finished patting on some dirt, poured water over it, straightened up, and padded slowly into the house.

"He doesn't know how, and he doesn't know he should," The man nodded along to his own words. "You saw that person, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir," he answered, but he only thought, _How does someone not know they need a friend_?

"I need you to be gentle. Show that person that life isn't so bad, or at least, try."

"So... I'm... I'm supposed to make sure that she doesn't kill herself? And then I can see mama and papa again?"

The man chuckled, though Peter didn't know why. He hadn't made a joke. "Yes, but be a friend. Be there for him."

Peter nodded and said nothing, waiting for the man's next words: "Go ahead over. You can't pick things up yet, but you can walk through walls and doors. Go on."

Hesitantly, Peter reached out and touched the door- but his hand went straight through. He kept walking, and soon he'd disappeared behind the wood.

The man, tall and regal and wearing only white, stroked his beard and said to himself, "Now, what next...? Oh, Francis is acting up again. I best contact Elizibeta."


End file.
